Baby, It's Cold Outside!
by kkolmakov
Summary: My traditional Christmas Modern AU. The five departments of an audit firm come together at the Christmas party, and Benedict Smaug from Treasury might set it on fire. And later, when John Thorington from the IT department invites my OC to a dinner he cooked for her at his place, will she say she needs to scurry when it's so late and so cold outside? Nothing but silly fluff here!
1. Beginning to Look Like Xmas

**Happy Holidays! And here is the traditional fluffy Christmas modern AU! Beware of the dawww induced cavities! :)**

 **So far, planned as a small T rated piece, but if I happen to overdose on the broken pieces of a gingerbread house, anything can happen! :P**

 **All the warmest wishes to you, my bestest readers in the world!**

 **Love,**

 **Katya Kolmakov**

* * *

1.

"Leary, can I have a word?" John Thorington has just stuck his head into her office, and Wren freezes, a biscuit between her teeth. She quickly stuffs the sweet in her mouth and hums, nodding enthusiastically.

My oh my, he so can have a word! And anything else for that matter. Like maybe her on this very table. Repeatedly. Alrighty, Leary, pull yourself together.

She blames it on the season. Wren loves Christmas. She loves it with all her heart! Exactly the Christmas everyone likes to criticise, and pretend they aren't enjoying, at least in their hipster, gluten free eating, recycling, Etsy shopping company. The Christmas that is all green and red, Elves and the jolly white bearded fellow, and sappy BBC videos, and excessive eating, consumerism, and sugar rush, and gift lists, and corny wrapping paper, snowmen and penguins, and tinsel, and tacky overly decorated trees in every shopping mall - that's Wren's beloved Christmas.

And this is the first Christmas she'll be celebrating alone with her daughter. The divorce papers were signed six months ago, her Nana is on a cruise, and as for her ex husband's family... well, maybe she just isn't ready for it. So it'll be just her and Mira. And it is... wonderful!

This year she can savour every little thing! They decorated the tree, hung the stockings - three actually: for her, for Mira, and for Mr. Thornton, their black and white cat. They've been baking like mad women for weeks: measuring, stirring, rolling out, cutting, waiting, decorating, and of course eating the broken ones. And they even went clothes shopping last weekend, and planned their outfits, and even bought matching hair pins with little tartan bows.

Wren thinks it just might be the best Christmas of her life!

And she feels happy, and emotional, and that's exactly why she loves Christmas. Because that is the time of the year when she allows herself to be this Wren: careless, optimistic, hopeful, biscuits eating, _Let It Snow_ humming, dancing in the kitchen, wearing the funny red hat with a white pompom, tearing up over _Arthur Christmas_ , cuddling with her daughter and the cat on the sofa, believing in Christmas miracle Wren. The one who through the rest of the year has to be strong, and independent, and in charge, and a single mom, and having it all under control; and she does, and she manages, and even succeeds... but on Christmas she'll just let herself make merry!

And this Wren sees everything through a cloud of sparkling mist, and a gentle jingling in her head, and this Wren might be just a wee bit in love with a certain colleague of hers.

And now John Thorington wants a word with her.

And see above: John Thorington with his six five of height, massive wide body, black beard, and long hair, silky looking and orgasmically wavy - John Thorington from the IT department in their audit firm can have anything he wants.

They work together quite often, and he is just... ooph! So lush! Wren likes everything about him. The low velvet voice, the calm confidence, large masculine hands, with long fingers and elegant wrists, the habit of rolling up his sleeves - and the black hair covering his forearms is giving her the most indecent dreams - and his blue eyes, so bright, and the crow's feet in the corners of his smiling eyes when she makes a Doctor Who related joke. And he's a genuinely nice bloke! Good at his job, helpful, not judgmental, patient when her OS gives her barney again. And maybe other chicks in the firm think he's a bit of a grouch, but Wren thinks he might just be a wee bit... perfect.

She beckons him inside, wondering if it looks like she's having a seizure, with her flailing arms and boggled eyes, but her mouth is full of the biscuit and she's a bit tongue-tied around him most of the time anyway. That is until her Leary-Tourette strikes, and she starts blathering uncontrollably.

He steps in and closes the door behind him. In the name of Santa Claus, the man's massive! And the shoulder hip ratio is just phenomenal!

He opens his mouth to ask whatever he's here for - it must be job related, there's a crinkle between his thick black eyebrows. Though, to think of it, it's virtually always there. Well, at least as much as Wren has seen of him. But then he stops in his tracks and stares at the tin on her table.

"Are those Dalek shaped ginger snaps?" he asks, and Wren swallows and pushes the tin towards him.

"Yep. My daughter and I baked them." She might be boasting a bit. After all, she's quite proud of the eyestalks. "Have some!"

He picks up one biscuit, and Wren discreetly ogles the hands. In the name of Rudolph the Bullied but Later Appreciated Reindeer, she'd love to know what they feel like. On her skin, preferably. He's not biting in, though, and twirls the Dalek in his fingers.

"I'm asking you out, Leary," he pronounces and then looks at her. The voice is low and rich like Wren's favourite treacle hermits, and his gaze is direct and earnest, and the next Dalek she picked up from the tin snaps in her fingers.

"Pardon?" she squeaks. The glacial blue eyes are studying her face. Is he trying to guess her answer? She's too shocked to even remember how to breathe, to say nothing of sussing out an answer. If she could choose, she'd fancy to sound savvy, and sexy, and confident, but instead she's staring at him like a child in front of a pretzel tent at the Lincoln's Christmas market.

"It's the Christmas party tomorrow. Everyone gets arsed up and hooks up. You've been divorced for six months. I've waited, not wanting to pressure you, but I can't risk it tomorrow." He pronounces all... this... with a completely serious face, and the Dalek's dome limply falls out of Wren's fingers and plops on the table. "So, I was hoping you'd give me an answer before the end of tomorrow. The party is at eight, everyone goes home to change before it."

He still looks grumpy, by the way. He's making a proposition, his tone even and calm, and then he nods, apparently satisfied with it and bites his Dalek's 'plunger' off. He's crunching, Wren's panting.

Somehow out of all possible next lines, this is what she rasps out.

"I am alcohol intolerant. I don't get arsed up." He gives her a very decorous nod, slightly tilting his head on one side, as if ticking a box. She reckons he's just filed this piece of information away in his very organised noggin.

All those conversations they've had before - where he'd ask something in a nonchalant tone, while clicking on something in her comp, and she'd blather after that, tangling in her own words, because she'd caught the fragrance of his cologne, or he'd be sitting too close - and he seems to radiate heat - or she'd just noticed a small curl near his ear - all those chats they've had now look quite different. He's been waiting this whole time! Studying her! It's a twap!

He seems so chill! Just standing there! Chewing her Dalek! Is this how his mind works?! He put it all in front of her, declared his intentions, so to say, and now what?! Is there a form to sign?!

"I wasn't looking for anything... I have a daughter. I'm not exactly... hooking up material," she mumbles weakly.

"I don't doubt that. But I thought I'd just make it clear that I'm interested. In you. Not hooking up." In the name of Yule log and candy canes, would you just look at him!

He finishes the biscuit, brushes crumbs off his dark navy jumper - and that is a glorious chest! - and pushes the door open.

"See you tomorrow, Wren." His low voice envelops her name like the caramel sauce on figgy pudding, and Wren swoons. "And happy holidays!"

"Merry Christmas..." she whimpers, and he closes the door behind him.

* * *

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modern romance/erotica humour story, initially written here}

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 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	2. Tis the Season

**A/N: I have to say that when I was posting this silly fluff of the Christmas story, the last thing I expected was the reviews that I received to it. If you like, check out the ones left by the readers with nicks Qoheleth, TMI Fairy, and RagdollPrincess. They left me very emotional, but for quite different reasons.**

 **A/N#2: This story is growing a bit :) Initially it had only two chapters, but I'm having too much fun! (And hopefully, you do too :) There might even be a bit of plot in it :) Also, let me know if you want a bit of M rating. I can either crank up the rating here, or post a separate M rated companion piece. Or we can keep up with last year's tradition of fluffy T :)**

 **Happy Holidays!**

 **K.**

* * *

Wren successfully avoids John Thorington all through the next day. It's not like she doesn't have her answer - although, she's only 98% certain that all she wants for Christmas is to ravish him in most diverse positions - but she's just not sure how to go about it, since they work together.

Also, she's worried that at least 23% of his sudden interest towards her might be the season. Although, he did mention that he'd been waiting for months for an opportune moment to charm socks off her - they're red and white and stripy like candy canes by the way - so there's a possibility he won't back off after the aforementioned ravishing.

The other big question is whether Wren wants it to go beyond ravishing. She is finally single, and she's enjoying it immensely. And she has Mira. And quoting _Wham!_ if he gives it away the very next day, it's not just her heart at stake here. Mira gets attached to people very quickly. Wren can, of course, have relationship without involving Mira, but if there's a man in Wren's life who doesn't go to museums with her and her daughter on weekends, grocery shopping on Tuesdays, skating every second week, doesn't attend their family film nights every Saturday, and board game nights on Wednesday - and yes, Wren knows her life is very organised, she's am accountant after all - then the aforementioned man can have her on an occasional Thursday night, perhaps once a month. Something tells her that John Thorington - with his determined crinkle between the eyebrows, and meticulous preparations, and clearly articulated intentions - wouldn't be satisfied with one Thursday night once a month.

Wren frets, fights her habdabs, devours biscuits to the point of nausea, and jumps up every time anyone comes to her office. She's still not quite sure how she'd behave if she saw him, and every knock at her door makes her freeze like a squirrel caught rummaging in a rubbish bin.

To make this day a wee bit more nerve wracking, she has a surprising amount visitors. She guesses, 'tis the season. People wander the office, laugh in the halls, and no one actually works.

Luke Bowman stops by, and Wren is laughing loudly at the story of how his three kids were decorating the tree and almost set it on fire. He's been in the firm for the last couple month, they relocated him from the Esgaroth Inc. branch. He's a widower and a single dad, and Wren and him are mates. Last month they took their respective sprogs to _Puff the Magic Dragon_ play together, in the Young Children Theatre. Luke is a very attractive man, but nothing stirs in Wren's nether regions. Which Wren is thankful for. She didn't lie to a certain IT specialist when she said she wasn't looking for anything. The fact that she's been imagining the aforementioned IT specialist out of his stylish navy blue jumpers and dark denim... is just a glitch. There's just something about him that doesn't let her stop thinking about him. Even despite the fact that their firm has an unnatural concentration of attractive males, there's just something so majestic about John Thorington!

Lee Mirkwood sticks his head into the doors, just before lunch. Wren always has mixed feelings towards him. On one hand, he is fit. As in mind blowingly beautiful. Even among the men of the company, he stands out. With his amazing height, wide shoulders, and narrow hips, and legs that just don't stop! The hair is almost snow white, and look very silky, the profile noble, lips curved. And deer oh deer, he's mesmerising! And has the sexiest voice ever - low and velvet and hypnotizing. On the other hand, Mirkwood is… odd. Sometimes he has this barmy facial expression... His eyes widen and go glassy, and then it looks like he's having a crisis! And Wren never knows how to react to this.

He has a work related question, and then he suddenly tells that his 13-year son is in love with the wrong girl, and is bringing her for the Christmas dinner. Wren carefully asks what exactly is wrong with the girl, in his opinion that is, and he deadpans, "Well, she's a ginger, to start with..." Wren stares at him in disbelief. Apparently, the bloke managed to fail to notice Wren's orange curls sticking around her head like an azalea flower bed.

"And she is… from the council estates," Mirkwood continues, his elegant nostrils flare, and then with a dismissive wave of his long fingered hand he disappears through the door. Wren wrinkles her nose. He's now 78.5% less attractive. Yuck. Now she really hopes that Mirwood Junior goes stable with the redhead from the estates. It'll teach his posh prick of the father a lesson in parenting.

After lunch, Ian McGrey stops by. He's one of the co-owners of the firm, but he likes to stick his nose into the business of each department. Many find it annoying. For example, Hugo Elrond who is in charge of the Water Facilities Department loves to remind McGrey that as an owner he truly doesn't need to oversee every little detail. Wren doesn't mind it, though. She likes the old man, there's some sort of a mischievous spark to him.

He visits for a moment, snatches a biscuit from her tin, asks about her daughter - Wren dutifully says everything is ace - and with a wink the old man disappears.

Thankfully Thorington's department is in the basement of the building, and the IT crowd only resurfaces when called to help out. They rarely interfere in the dealings of the main floor, so Wren can take a breather and overanalyze everything she knows about him.

* * *

The work day is over, and Wren grabs her handbag and rushes home to change. She's galloping through the hall, her mobile pressed to her ear. Her babysitter, a lovely Canadian girl named Reese is reporting to her that Mira and her are done dinner, and are currently colouring the reindeer Wren drew for Mira this morning. Wren reminds Reese that it's the company party tonight, and that Wren's friend Thea will come to let Reese go home…

...when Wren smashes into someone's wide and heavy body, and somehow, right away she knows what eyes she'll meet when she lifts her face.

He looks good. In the name of mince pies, does he look good! So bloody good! Wren knows she's being repetitive… but so good! In his well-tailored dark blue Belstaff peacoat, red and blue stripy scarf, some very fancy looking laptop bag across his shoulder… and the fragrance! Something spicy, and woody, and so very him!

Wren realises she's staring, while he's calmly looking at her down his long nose. Wren's brain conks out, and all that is left in her noggin are thrashing one to two word statements. Beard! Black! Silver! On temples! Eyes! Blue! Lashes! So fluffy! Surprisingly long! Sexy! So sexy!

Wren emits a sound reminiscent of how Mr. Thornton weakly mewls when picked up unexpectedly.

"Going home?" Thorington asks, and Wren's knees give in a bit. With this voice he should work on radio, or sing some medieval songs about dungeons, caverns, and gleaming gold.

All Wren manages is a jerky spasmodic nod.

"See you at the party," he says, and the voice has dropped even lower. There's a small smile dancing in his eyes, and Wren gulps loudly. And then he leans in, and his face is very close, and Wren can't breathe. "I hope you'll give me your answer then."

Is it hot here? It seems very hot. About the temperature of a well heated baking oven. Indeed, Wren feels like a perfectly executed Christmas roast.

He smirks lopsidedly, with just the very corner of his lips, and leaves. Wren isn't quite certain in her own limbs at the moment, so she takes a moment to pretend to check her mobile, while trying not to pant too loudly.

* * *

At home she's met by the sounds of loud laughter. Thea and Mira are watching _Wallace and Gromit's Christmas Cardomatic Cracking Contraptions._

Mira is five, and she loves the turkeys and sheep. Thea has had a bit of sherry. Mr. Thornton is asleep in his basket. Wren wants to stay home. She's having kittens, and it's not the do that makes her so jittery. Yes, the evening has an exciting potential, but on the other hand, Wren isn't sure she's ready...

She takes a shower and goes to the bedroom to change. The party is an ugly sweater party, and she prepared a white tulle skirt, all fluffy and lush, and sparkly golden stilettos, and an emerald green sweater with a reindeer muzzle with black and red pompoms for eyes and nose. The antlers are black velvet, and altogether it's more cute than ugly. C'mon, Wren decides to indulge just this one time. She's divorced the man she thought was the love of her life just six months ago. She needs a bit of a self-esteem boost.

"Do you have a jumper with a penguin?" Thea asks, from the door, where she's leaning on the frame, sipping sherry and studying Wren's outfit. Wren's busy pinning her hair up.

"No, why?"

"If your Mr. Hottie is a computer wizard, he loves penguins. Something about a thing called Linux, and such." Wren looks at Thea not understanding. Thea shrugs. "I once knobbed some boffin, who was into the computer rubbish, and he told me that penguins for them are like Louboutins for a chick."

"Thea! Even if I had a penguin decorated jumper, I'm not dressing up for him!" Wren's full of feminist indignation.

"Oh yeah," Thea draws out sarcastically. "Watson doesn't shave for Sherlock Holmes, and all this fancy wrapper on you, including the heels that you'd rather die than wear on any other day, is just 'cause, yeah?"

Wren looks at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks are rosy, and she even put some mascara, and the jumper hugs her in all the right places. Yep, that's official. She has just dolled herself up for John Thorington. Blast it.

* * *

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	3. Battle of Five Departments

**HAPPY HOLIDAYS!**

 **Thank you for being my readers this year! For supporting, reviewing, chatting with me! I'm endlessly grateful for you, my daring readers! You warm my heart! All the best wishes to you this season, and may all your Christmases be white!**

 **Ardently and with all my heart yours,**

 **Katya Kolmakov**

* * *

Did Wren mention that the party is an ugly sweater party? Well, there's nothing ugly about John Thorington in a rather tight navy blue jumper with a psychotically looking Nutcracker on it. It's just hugging him so well, oh Wren's ovaries! The chest!

And no, he wasn't the first thing she noticed when coming into the room. C'mon, she isn't that far gone! The first thing she noticed was Dain Ironhill from the Metallurgy Department. The bloke is huge, a ginger, and is wearing a jumper with a massive hog in a red hat, saying _Happy Pigmas!_ Try getting this image out of your head! Wren probably won't be able to forget it before Valentine's.

There's eggnog, and this year the firm is doing pub style buffet, which makes Wren very happy. She honestly thinks Christmas is all about sausage rolls, chips, and aubergine rounds, and not some crostinis with some posh something on them. There are empanadillas, samosas, and fried chicken. And of course, biscuits, and other pudding, and ho-ho-ho! Wren might be drooling a bit.

She's cheerfully noshing, chinwagging with Kate Galadriel from the Forestry Department, when there's some strange shiver down her spine. Tandoori chicken off a skewer is instantly stuck in her throat. Oh deer, is it going to be like that every time, or it's going to get better after they shag? What?! No, of course it's not decided yet.

She slowly turns and swallows the nosh with difficulty. Oh in the name of figgy pudding, he's delicious! Kate smiles one of her odd, slightly barmy half smiles, and suddenly is gone. She generally has an ability to materialize and disappear in the thin air, everyone's used to it by now.

Wren drops her eyes to his plate. It's all cheese. Well, mostly cheese. There are couple lonely grapes cuddling among all this dairy opulence.

"Turophile?" she squeaks, and he smirks lopsidedly.

He pops a cube into his mouth, and then starts pointing on the yellow, white, and orange pieces on his plate with the toothpick. Which looks so small in his long fingers, and it shouldn't work on her nether regions, but oh-la-la! Also, you know how they say that a low velvet male voice can make reading a phonebook sexy? Well, they haven't heard John Thorington naming cheeses!

"Red Leicester, cheddar, stilton, Wensleydale, and of course, Double Gloucester."

Boom, Wren is having a quiet crisis. Secretly. While trying to keep her eyes from rolling back, and a moan falling off her lips. And then Santa knows why, she squeaks, "We forgotten the crackers, Gromit!"

He guffaws. Oh blast it, that did it. The view of him laughing loudly, blue irises hidden in the squinted eyes, behind the fluffy black lashes, the white teeth gleaming, and the booming laughter rumbling in his chest - no one can stand through this. Wren's knees are shaking.

Wren has half a mind to run - he is just so… everything, she's almost terrified - and half a mind to maybe grabbing him and doing something to relieve this bloody craving for all of… this, when Ian McGrey taps the microphone with his long bony fingers and clears his throat.

"And now it is time for our traditional trivia battle! Contestants, take your seats!"

It's the firm tradition, and Wren sees the competitive glimmer in Thorington's eyes. His department has been losing to the Orchestra Department for the last four years, and judging by the suddenly set jaw and the way he cracks his neck - hot, hot, hot, by the way - this year IT is putting up quite a fight.

And then he looks down at her. "Wish me luck."

Oh that's what they call a purr. Roar, what a beast! She steps closer, and throws him a look from under her lashes.

"Good luck," and then she rises on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his cheek. It's hot and smooth above the beard, and he smells so nice! Something spicy, and pine like, or maybe juniper, or cedar, and Wren gets a lungful of it. Oh, call an elf ambulance, Wren's toast!

* * *

The first round of trivia is between departments, and the Orchestra one, with their Deputy Head, Lawrence Bolgson, quickly kicks the Metallurgy Department's arse. They still have enough points to try to get into the final round, but pop music just isn't Dain Ironhill's forte. Wren imagines he's more into Celtic hard rock, or something.

Bolgson moves onto the Forestry Department, and Lee Mirkwood's team is having hard time with American telly shows, but they are fighting valiantly.

Meanwhile, Thorington's IT clashes with the Manu Azogo, the Entertainment Department, which the Orchestra peeps are a subdivision. Watching IT triumph with excellent _Eastenders_ knowledge seems to give other teams a nudge, and Bolgson starts squirming on his chair, in front of a table with a large red buzzer.

After Mirkwood is done with - Wren feels slightly pleased about it, she's still not over his prick tude towards his son's personal life - Mikael Beornson, from Airlines, jumps into the fight. The fight is short and bloody, Beornson knows little about footie, and soon the two men are shaking hands.

And now it's Captain round. Ironhill takes down Bolgson, and it's Thorington vs Azogo time. Wren is so nervous she's chewing on a wrapper instead of her Tunis cake.

The topic is _Doctor Who_ , and Wren exhales in relief. Pretty much most of their chats with Thorington - she did most of the talking - was about the show. Sadly, Azogo seems to be a Whovian as well, and points rain on both contestants. Then Azogo slips on the question regarding _Cold War_ episode from the seventh series, and Wren is as much as rubbing her hands. She guesses, ice doesn't favour Azogo, huh? He arses up the names of the characters, and look, he's sinking! Thorington is as calm as a Santa in a department shop, and is smiling to his opponent with the corners of his lips. The eyes are steely though, and Wren's having very inappropriate thoughts about him at the moment.

And then the 'snog question' comes. It's the classics, and Wren just doesn't know how they could have messed it up! The new series Doctor's first kiss, it's so simple! She wonders if it's because men pay less attention to it, or what? But Azogo smashes his red button, and growls that it was Rose, with Cassandra inside.

Wren sees a cocky grin on Thorington's lips. Are they soft? They look soft. Focus, libido, we'll find out later. And then he gives his answer.

And he gets it wrong! Wren can't believe it!

He goes with Rose after she absorbed the Time Vortex, and Wren gasps "No!" loudly. Well, yeah, that is an iconic moment, but no! Thorington throws a look at her over his shoulder.

McGrey is mournfully shaking his head. "Miss Leary?"

"It's Jack. Jack is the first kiss," Wren answers begrudgingly. She really doesn't want to rub salt into Thorington's wound, but c'mon! Jack Harkness!

Both contestants are out, and this year's trophy goes to Ironhill.

* * *

Azogo and Thorington shake hands, glaring at each other, and Thorington comes up to Wren.

"At least, it's engineers, and not artsy people this year," he grumbles, and she pushes a plate with cheese under his nose.

"Sorry." She's rub his upper arm soothingly, but touching him might have some unpredictable consequences. Which would be very workplace inappropriate.

"How could you have forgotten Jack, though?" Wren shakes her head, and Thorington throws her a grumpy side glance, while chewing his Cornish blue.

And then there's some loud noise at the background, and they both look.

Benedict Smaug from the Treasury is so bladdered that he's hardly standing. He's yelling something slurred and clearly NSFW. He's also waving a hand with a glass of Scotch, sploshing it everywhere, and then this whiskey rain catches fire from the nearest red and white stripy candle, and then his sleeve is on fire too. Thorington rushes to him, and splashes ice water from champagne bucket at him. Now it smells like burnt wool in the room - from Smaug's jumper - and Smaug goes on another bender, yelling insults and something in the lines of 'You all depend on us! Without us this firm is death and desolation!' Quite pompous for a drunk prick, don't you think?

And then Luke Bowman socks the poor sod in a jaw. There's a bit of a punch up, and Thorington rushes in. Him and his Deputy Head, an arse scary, hench Scot, Graham Dwalinson, drag Bowman one way, while couple more peeps are restraining the pissed idiot.

Bowman is still fuming, but Thorington claps his shoulder, in a very bromance way, and they shake hands and have some Scotch.

* * *

After all this disgusting testosterone filled demonstration - and no, she isn't feeling so randy that she has to grit her teeth and press her knees together! - Wren has only one choice.

She marches through the hall, straight to Thorington, jumps up a bit, and hangs on his neck.

The kiss is mind-blowing. It's Jack and Sally from _Nightmare_ ; it's the PM and Natalie from _Love Actually,_ and as sweet as _White Christmas,_ and it explodes in Wren's head like a helicopter over Nakatomi Plaza.

He wraps his arms around her middle and pulls her up and into him, as if she weighs nothing, and then he twirls her, and his lips are indeed soft, and warm, and Wren's head is spinning, and there is some pleasantly jingling bells in it!

He slightly moves away and smiles softly to her.

"That's my 'yes' answer," she rasps out, coarse voiced as if she'd been carolling for the last five hours.

"Dinner, my place, tomorrow?" he asks. It's 23rd tomorrow, and definitely yes. She affirms it with another proper kiss. People might be applauding.

"And hire a sitter for all night," he murmurs into her lips.

Cocky, much?

"I'll consider it."

Oh figgy pudding with it, of course she will!

* * *

 **At least two more chapters coming up ;) Happy holidays, my duckies!**

* * *

 **MINITHORIN CHRISTMAS POSTCARDS**

 **It's still not too late to buy them on The King and Wren Etsy Shop!**

 **Buy, print and/or email to your friends and family,**

 **and enjoy again and again!**

* * *

 **FIND ME ON FACEBOOK!**

 **Writer's page Katya Kolmakov**

 **for updates, and news, and discounts in my Etsy shop!**

* * *

 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

{two romance webserials, both inspired by my writing here}

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

{ _Blind Carnival_

modern romance/erotica humour story, initially written here}

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	4. Here Comes Santa Clause

**So, life is slowly returning to its normal pace! Except, did you know that Russians celebrate New Year's like Westerners celebrate Christmas: with a big feast, and gifts, and making merry? My little family always does both Christmas and New Year's this way, so I might still be scarce for a few days, but altogether we'll be back to intense update schedule this week :)**

 **So, keep an eye on _Letters to Your Heart, Axes to Your Scabbard_ as my main Middle Earth story, conclusion chapters for _Me Without You_ , _Blind Carnival_ on JukePop dot com on Thursdays, and Dr. T Series on my blog on Saturdays. **

**And find my writer's page on Facebook! News, updates, and my doodles are there!**

 **Happy holidays!**

 **K.**

 **P.S At least one more chapter here. Although, it might grow even more. Killian found a puppy, RagdollPrincess' OC Reese is doing headstands, and Phil can't stop texting his American girlfriend. I might not be able to wrap it all in one chapter (although I'm a master wrapper! With just three pieces of tape, and enough time for a bow :D)**

* * *

"Mummy, are you going to a sleepover?" Mira is studying Wren, who's pinning up her hair.

"No, no, of course not! Just a dinner!" Wren squeaks, twirling on her heels, raining the carpet with kirby grips decorated with tiny sparkly acorns.

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," Thea draws out, and Wren glares at her. She looks back at her daughter, who is trying to stick one of the kirbies in her own copper spirals.

"I'm just going to a dinner. I'll be back late, after your bedtime, but tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and we'll be cooking and preparing, yeah?"

"If someone is not too exhausted," Thea whispers, and Wren nonchalantly gives her an elbow punch under ribs.

Mira picks up Mr. Thornton from the floor and leaves, and Wren looks herself over in the mirror. She's torn. His very direct invitation - and the suggestion to hire a sitter for the whole night - is clearly pointing at… lots of pudding after that dinner, but she can't say she's completely comfortable with idea. As much as she's fantasized about him. After all, if anything, it's their first date. Sort of. Oh, in the name of Santa's unnamed elves, she's also plainly having kittens. There's a certain finality to the idea of staying overnight, and maybe she just wants to talk to him… Nicely sit on his sofa, fireplace - which he might not have - cozily crackling, sipping… something, since she's alcohol intolerant, her hand on his knee, sliding up, her lips on his neck... Wait, what?! Wren shakes her head violently, couple pins falling on the floor from her unruly curls. No, no, naughty Wren, no! Coal in your stocking! She's not even sure he's here to stay, no neck biting, beard fondling, chest clawing… Blast it.

"Well, you're cute as a button..." Thea is also giving her a look over. "But there's just not enough… fireworks!" Thea gestures all over Wren. "No 'unwrap me with your perfect white teeth, love!'" Thea pronounces it like 'loov' mimicking Thorington's Northern accent, and Wren groans. She really shouldn't have been gushing about his voice for couple hours straight after she got arsed up after accidentally overdosing on rum cakes.

"And that is good, Thea!" Wren shakes a finger at her best mate. "No unwrapping, no fireworks, no sleepovers! We will have dinner and get to know each other better!"

"Uh-huh," Thea hums sarcastically. "In the Biblical sense?" And she wiggles her perfect eyebrows.

"Shut it, Martin. None of that tonight," Wren answers firmly, and smoothes out her midi length, burgundy lace dress. Yes, it is a bit dull, but that's the point. She'll be wearing her favourite - very modest - pointed, black velvet flats, and only one thin chain bracelet with sparkly snowflakes. She is an accountant, for Santa's sake. She's uptight, and isn't looking for a random pull. And he will have to take it her way, or none at all. Wren has her daughter to protect. John Thorington will have to learn to take what he is given, and not an inch more. No puns intended. And no, she's not thinking about any other kind of inches. Blast it.

* * *

Her plan goes pearshaped, when he opens the door, and she's presented with the view of him in a dark green cardigan, white shirt, and a green and burgundy tartan bowtie.

Oh deer, oh deer, oh all twelve reindeer! All of this is so perfect she's going to scream. The cardigan is soft, and is just asking her to rub herself to it up and down. And yes, it does look like it's made of boyfriend material. The white shirt is one of Wren's kinks, and she's cowardly trying to remember if she has mentioned it to anyone at work. And of course, the bowtie…

"Seriously?" she rasps out, trying to sound sarcastic- and failing - and points at it.

"Bowties are cool." God, that sounded good. Calm and so very sexy. "Come in, Leary."

Wren minces inside, clutching her clutch. They are for clutching, yeah? Well, her knuckles are white she's that thorough in the whole clutching business.

His flat is nice. Manly and organised, but elegant and doesn't lack certain silly nothings here and there, like a Lego Death Star, or something, and she excuses herself to a loo and tries not to snoop, but does a bit. There's a guest bedroom, and some wonderful smells come from the kitchen, there's a table served in a small living room, and blimey, there's a tiny fireplace. She is so in trouble.

And then it gets worse. And there she thought it couldn't. But it does. As in everything is bloody... perfect. The dishes are all her favourites. Seriously, it's almost creepy. The King of Cool is murmuring at the background, and he's Wren's #1 Christmas tune master. And Mr. John Thorington is telling her about his family. As in 'getting to know each other better.' Did he download a PDF somewhere titled "How to Charm Wren Leary in Five Simple Steps?"

Wren is poking her mozzarella and tomatoes with balsamic dressing, and he's telling her about his nephews. One is 17, another 15, and both are rascals and cheeks. There're couple candles on the table, the drinks are cranberry ginger sparklers, and the quote from Admiral Ackbar comes back to Wren's mind.

Thorington then proceeds to enlighten her on his education, previous personal history, and his living family members, including his Nana and her proclivities for giving out family jewels to significant others - no matter what gender - of male offsprings in the Thorington clan, including a key shaped pendant of immense value that his bride is to get as an engagement gift, and some other riches their kin had hoarded over centuries. Wren stuffs her mouth with her favourite baked brie - and of course, with her favourite raspberries in it. There's also molded cranberry salad. That one she remembers mentioning to him. He was lying on his back under her desk, fixing some cables, and she just couldn't stop blathering because she was trying not to look at the strip of his stomach that showed when his jumper slid up. Oh, is it hot here? Wren feels hot. The stomach was flat, looked rock hard, and was very furry, and Mrs. Claus be her witness, that did things to Wren!

"Is everything alright?" Oh candy canes and candied apples, how is he doing this thing with his voice? "You look flushed." There's a sincere concern in his voice. Wren is suspicious, though.

"Yeah, tip top. The food is magnificent," she chokes out. He had some red wine, his cheeks are rosy too, above the beard, and Wren really shouldn't have kissed the cheek at the Christmas do at work. Now she knows what it tastes like! "What's the main course?"

"Duck breasts in cherry sauce."

What sort of... chestnut stuffing is this?! That's her favourite!

"That's my favourite!" Her fork loudly clanks to the plate.

"You've mentioned. Couple weeks ago," he deadpans and carefully places a forkful of the brie in his mouth. The soft lips close around the utensil, and Wren really shouldn't have kissed him at the party!

"And… What is it? This dinner..?" Wren gestures around the table with her fork, and then he cocks a brow. Just like they describe in her favourite novels. _Blind Carnival,_ for example. A whimsical eyebrow. A Roger Moore eyebrow.

"Wren, I want you to have a nice evening. And I want you to know I listen to you. And I'm serious about us."

"There's no us!" Wren squeaks.

"Not yet, no," he agrees lightly. "But it's not night yet. And it's cold outside." A corner of his lips crawls up, and Wren squeezes her knees.

Wren reminds herself of the plan, and they continue eating, and enjoying the conversation, and he's funny, in a strange grumpy way, and interesting, and seemingly sincerely curious about her life. The fire is roaring, and the evening is grand, and Wren is finding it increasingly harder to shake off the spell.

After the dinner he invites her on the sofa, and she did dread it! The cursed thing is stylish and comfortable, and a small table is near it with pudding and tea. And according to the lyrics, she'd ask what's in this drink, but she knows it's her favourite Earl Grey, and there's cream, and honey, just the way she takes it. She once told him her preferences when he was going down to Starbucks to get his cuppa and offered to get her something as well. Blast it.

"Have you cooked it all?" She still can't believe it.

"I took classes for a few years. If something is worth studying, it's worth learning properly." That's John Thorington in a nutshell.

Except it's her who is the thing worth studying these days. And she gives him a studying look.

"I think I should go after pudding," she carefully says.

The glacial blue eyes narrow almost unnoticeably. He's not answering right away, she guesses cogs in his giant brain are swirling. It's like she just installed some manky Trojan into his thoroughly planned dinner, and his massive noggin is going through possible solutions with the speed of light.

"That's quite sad, but I'll call you a cab if you want." His tone is even, and then he hands her a plate with pudding.

* * *

Thinking back to the moment when her cork popped, Wren will always say that the peach Tatin was the reason she straddled him on his sofa.

The flaky crust melts in her mouth, and she moans. The man in front of her freezes with a fork near his lips, his eyes intent on her face. It's just so good! The caramel and the fruit bloom in her mouth, and the ginger snaps!

Wren pushes the plate on the table, and moves swiftly. She is welcomed with a pair of warm large hands and a wide grin. Would you look at that? He was quite quick putting his plate aside as well. As if he was preparing for it from the start.

She grabs the end of the bow tie and pulls. The ribbon flies on the floor, and she presses the other hand over the beard. Oh deer, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!

"No cab then?" he asks. If not for the crow's feet and slightly twitching lips, one would think he's actually asking.

Wren can't come up with a witty answer, so she just snogs him. His hands splay on her back, covering it from bra and knickers, and the aforementioned items are red, lacy, and match. As if she was planning for someone to see them.

Peach is Wren's favourite fruit. And it tastes even better on the lips of a certain IT specialist.

* * *

Wren's really trying not to fall asleep, but he is warm, and furry, and she is so tired… And he is so nice to lie on, and she nuzzles the chest, and his sheets are amazing, and… Yawn… She needs to get up…

Her phone beeps, and she jerks out of her bliss. Thorington's asleep, wrapped around her, his long nose pressed to her shoulder. There're freckles on this shoulder. After the first mind-blowing, passionate, romantic, and very jolly round of… pudding, he decided to kiss each one of them personally, which lead to a lot of giggling, and eventually another serving of the… pudding. There was one more after that, and now Wren wants to stay in the warm cocoon of his arms, and his bedding is ace, and her pins are pressed into the mattress with a very heavy hairy male lower extremity.

Wait, what?! The mobile! She jerks and rolls to the side of the bed. Oh stockings and mistletoe, she fell asleep in John Thorington's bed!

 _If you got any, stay and have breakfast there. If not, get some! Thea._

Wren's nose twitches. On one hand, she wasn't going to stay. On the other hand, breakfast… And morning… pudding… And in general, John Thorington… Awfully tempting.

"Get back to bed, Leary." A raspy and grumpy voice comes, and Wren squirms in indecision. "Wren?" The man switched to purr. Well, that's simply unfair! Low blow, Thorington! To the top of the naughty list, off you pop!

Wren crawls back, and he springs from under the duvet, and she squeals, while he's dragging her down and under, wrapping around her like a ribbon around a gift. She accepts her fate and settles in.

Her nose is buried in his neck now, and she sniffles happily.

"Regarding Christmas dinner..." His voice is muffled by her mane. He then yawns and squeezes her even more tightly. "I'm not spending it with my sister and nephews this year." Wren hums, her eyes closing. "I have one more woman to charm, and I might need the whole evening for that."

Wren's eyes fly open, and she's staring into the darkness of his bedroom. Seriously?! What the..?! One of his hands is on her naked buttock! Right at this moment! What the holly garland?.. She starts slowly rising, her mind thrashing between an option of a punch into his jaw, and a kick into the wedding vegetables, when he suddenly chuckles warmly.

"So what does Mira want for Christmas? And when should I be at your place for Christmas dinner?"

Wren's staring at him. Just like that? Apparently, yeah, just like that.

"Six. We sit down at the table at six. And she loves books and anything Paddington."

He nods. Wren can't see, but he's already pressing her head down with his heavy scorching paw, and she can feel him move. She presses her ear over the heart beating under furry pectoral muscles, and falls asleep rather content. Whom is she kidding? Christmas comes but once a year, and Wren has it three one to Christmas. 'Tis the season to be merry.

* * *

 **FIND ME ON FACEBOOK!**

 **Writer's page Katya Kolmakov**

 **for updates, and news, and discounts in my Etsy shop!**

* * *

 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

{two romance webserials, both inspired by my writing here}

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

{ _Blind Carnival_

modern romance/erotica humour story, initially written here}

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	5. Christmas Eve

**Hello *waves***

 **Please, have a look into my blog (kolmakov dot ca) where in the latest blog post you can subscribe for a newsletter for my new creative project - Rodhina - that will soon become a fantasy world-building, multimedia site, built around my story "Ani" that for now is available on my JukePop account (jukepop dot com, name: Katya Kolmakov).**

 **Ta!**

 **Yours truly,**

 **kkolmakov**

* * *

Wren ran. As the last coward, she weaseled from under his duvet - and out of his grasp that felt like a giant squid wrapped around her - sheepishly picked up her clothes, pulled them on, freezing repeatedly like a terrified rabbit - when he'd make a cozy snuffly noise - and stare at him with eyes as big as his stylish John Lewis Christmas decorations on the tree in his living room.

By the door she couldn't help it, and stopped to ogle him a bit. He was sleeping on his stomach, one long arm hanging off the edge of the bed, the long, noble nose adorably squeezed to the side by the pillow. Long dark hair scattered on the shoulders, silver threads in it, muscles under the even, tanned skin - the man of her dreams! Wren's is so in trouble!

He made a half snort, half sniffle nose, and Wren skedaddled.

* * *

At home she finds Thea and Mira eating crepes at the kitchen table, while Reese - called in for Wren's traditional last minute grocery shopping - is standing on her head by the wall. Literally. The girl is very sporty.

"Morning, Mrs. L!" the girl gleefully announces. "Had fun last night?"

Wren freezes in the doorframe - face pale and guilty, shoes in her hand. Three pairs of eyes are on her. She mumbles something nonsensical, and escapes towards bathroom. She knows Thea's coming for her soul - and all possible confessions regarding last night's transgressions - so Wren needs to prepare her statement.

Traditionally, Mira and Reese stay home, finishing up decorating the flat, and sneaking biscuits from the freezer, while Wren shops for ingredients for their light Christmas Eve dinner, while Thea lazily follows her between aisles, picking up samples offered by the shop employees, and scanning the surroundings for adequate males. Thea has Christmas dinners with her Mum and Aunt, but her Christmas Eve is always open. She calls it "charity night for the lonely and desperate." She claims no other man is as appreciative as "the poor bod left behind by his family and friends, and currently looking for the least disgusting frozen dinner."

Except today, Thea is stuck to Wren like a candy cane, which someone sat on, didn't notice, and allowed to properly attach between a warm bum and a sofa cushion.

"Leary, spill it! What was it like?"

Wren's ignoring her, pretending to study a jar with olives.

"Leary!" Thea switches to a menacing growl.

"Thea, I'm not talking about it! It was great, he's coming for dinner tomorrow! That's it!"

"He's coming for Christmas dinner?!" Thea hollers - she can probably be heard from veggies to bakery - and Wren starts shushing her. "Leary, you spent one night with the bloke! Have you hit your head?! It's like it's not even you." Thea gives her an astonished look over. "What sort of magic does he have in his…?" Wren claps a hand over Thea's mouth.

"I couldn't help it!" Wren hisses, releases her friend, and presses hands to her burning cheeks. "He just announced it. That he's coming. And asked what to get Mira. And I remembered all those clever ideas I had regarding how I didn't need a bloke in my life, and how Mira might get attached, and how I didn't bring Auggie to meet my family until we'd dated for a year and a half… But then John said 'Get back to bed, Leary'... and I sort of forgot!" Wren squeaks out, and bends in two in a deep exhale.

"Blimey..." Thea mumbles, shaking her head.

"I know, right?" Wren whines. "He's just sort of… hard. Just says what's going to be, and somehow I just agree. He's like a… steamroller! But a very slow one." Wren makes a Jedi move with her hand. "He doesn't run you over, but there's no escape..."

"Sexy!" Thea purrs approvingly, and claps her hands gleefully. "Tell me more!"

"Thea! There's nothing to be happy about here!"

"Listen, Leary." Thea taps her foot in a Louboutin. "You fancy the bloke…. Tuh-tuh-tuh! No arguing. It's written all over your cute clock. He's clearly not lacking in the bedroom department, judging by how you are gliding, and floating, as if on a cloud, and... bouncing this morning. I haven't seen you so bubbly in years! And he knows what he wants, and luckily it's what you want. So, what's the problem?"

Wren gives it a thought, and has to concede - there's none.

"Alright, let's go to the cheese department. I need to stock up," she grumbles to Thea, and the latter smiles widely.

"Ace. And now I want to know… everything!"

Wren groans and heads towards cheeses. She only has three kinds in her fridge. She needs more.

* * *

While she's finishing cooking the Christmas Eve dinner - Mira's favourite chicken alfredo, garlic bread, and assorted sweets for dessert - Wren carefully breaches the topic of a guest they might - or not - have for Christmas dinner. He still hasn't called. Maybe he changed his mind. Something tells her he didn't, but we wouldn't want to be presumptuous, would we?

"His name is John, and we work together. And he wants to meet you."

Wren inflicts a few stabbing wounds upon a tomato she's slicing. She's much better at baking, but still decent with a knife. She's just so at sixes and sevens right now, that she can't quite coordinate her extremities. In the name of figgy pudding, how does one tell their five year old daughter that they might fancy a bloke from work, and have caught themselves daydreaming about a disgustingly cliche Christmas with him… and couple of his sprogs, all looking like a Hallmark postcard with their ebony locks and blue eyes, clearly adoring their father, and their wonderful older sister?

"Is he pretty?" Mira asks, her nose scrunched in concentration. She's in charge of tearing lettuce.

"Um… yes. He's very handsome."

"Are you going to marry him instead of Da?" Mira - unfortunately for Wren at the moment - is an exceptionally bright kid, and her speech patterns are very advanced. Wren blushes.

"No…" It's very hard to lie to Mira. She'll give you the Mira look if you try. Wren amends, "I don't know…"

"If you do, I want to carry the rings. And it would be great if he could skate. Da couldn't, and we need someone to go with us. Is he tall? Someone has to fix that shelf in your bedroom. Maybe he has his own hammer."

The dirty part of Wren's mind supplies the answer, that, yes, he does, and his hammering is top notch.

"So, you'd be alright if he comes over more often then?" Wren asks nonchalantly, and Mira throws her the aforementioned Mira look. She's a mini Wren - except pretty - the same orange curls, freckles, turn-up nose. At the moment she expresses patronising kindness with every feature.

"I don't know. I have to meet him first, don't I?"

Wren decides that's as good of an answer as she's going to get, and goes back to cooking.

Reese sticks her head into the kitchen. She's already changed into pretty black trousers, and a red sequin top. She's going to meet up with her giant, loud, terrifyingly friendly, extensive Canadian family. Wren had a misfortune of running into them in a shopping center once. They fed her, bought her a scarf, and there was a lot of shaking her hand, and then unsolicited hugging at the end. Wren was left disheveled and confused, but somewhat warm and mushy inside.

"I'm ready to go, Mrs. L. Unless you need me for anything else..."

"No, no, Reese, thank you very much. You should go to your family! We will see you the twenty-seventh."

"Merry Christmas, Mrs. L! Merry Christmas, Mims!" Mira waves with a leaf of lettuce.

"Oh, Reese, did you take your gift?" Wren hastily wipes her hands, and goes to search for her handbag. She has a bonus cheque for the girl.

"I have. Thanks, Mrs. L. I left yours under the tree." The girl smiles widely.

"Oh you really shouldn't have!" Wren supplies the obligatory polite line, while secretly feeling very chuffed. She doesn't get many gifts for holidays. One from Thea, but it's usually a gift card for a lingerie shop. One from Mira, and of course this one is the best. Nana might send something from her cruise. And that's it.

"Oh c'mon, Mrs. L! We are family!"

When Wren opens her handbag, the mobile she forgot in it starts _Doctor Who Theme._ The number is unfamiliar.

"Hello?" Wren picks up, holding the phone with her ear, still rummaging through her bag.

"Wren?" John's voice trickles into her ear, and she gasps, and drops the poor gizmo on the floor.

She hurriedly kneels and grabs it.

"Yes?! Yes, I'm here. Um… What?.."

"Evening." Gods, the man's voice is as rich and sweet as Wren's best chocolate cayenne brownies. "I'm sorry to bother you, but do you happen to live near Dulwich College?"

"Yes, yes, I do…" Wren mumbles, frowning. That - that she didn't expect. And maybe, she hoped he'd call, in the name of yule log! Why not? They are sort of… friends these days. Ahem.

"Then I believe I'm near your place at the moment. With my two nephews, and a puppy they picked up freezing and dying in a rubbish bin. We've just finished our untimely visit to the vet. Could the four of us come up, if pets are allowed in your building, and neither you or your daughter are allergic?"

Remember how Wren complained she just couldn't say 'no' to the man? Basically, her brain turns into a bowl of Eton Mess - all mushy and sweet - but have you heard his authoritative, velvet voice, in the name of Santa's reindeer?!

Wren gives him the address, and goes to let Mira know they have guests. Reese is lingering behind, clearly curious beyond measure. Wren accepts her destiny, and throws more pasta into the boiling water.

* * *

 **Oops, it didn't end with just one more chapter. Sorry :) Well, maybe, the next one WILL be the last one *doubtful voice***


	6. Come, Ye Lofty

**A/N: My dearies, it's the season again! Every year I write a frothy Christmas story, and this year I decided not to start a new one. Since this story has been shamelessly abandoned by yours truly last year, and then couple of you requested the continuation, here is a new chapter!**

 **Those of you, who are new to it, it's been a year so the information on my writing projects and my art in the previous chapters is outdated. I'll put my links at the end of this one, and always feel welcome to PM me if you have any questions. And now, to the candy canes, lush blue-eyed men in jumpers, and holiday cheer!**

* * *

 **A/N#2: I drew John, Wren, Mira and (not yet existent in this story) Thomas, and you can find the picture on my writer's Facebook (facebook dot com slash katyakolmakov) and on my DevianArt (nick: kkolmakov). Have a peek ;)**

* * *

The puppy is ugly. Well, as ugly as a puppy can be - which is not much. It's lanky, the fur is white and grey and black in uneven patches. Wren vaguely remembers that the dog she had as a child - Wolfgang, called thusly by her very musical Nana - had had the same stage of changing from a fluffy soft puppy into a giant terrifying wolf like creature. This one will grow into a similar miniature horse sized monstrosity.

Wren opens the door, and heavily blushes at the view of her last night's transgression in fresh. Oh the flesh, in the name of brandy sauce! He's clad in his black peacoat of sex, a colourful stripy scarf; his cheeks are rosy from the cold; and he blinks behind the quickly foggying glasses. If there is anything in this world that produces a louder squeal of joy and adoration inside Wren than a good-looking man with sizable intellect in brainy specs that would be a good-looking man with sizable intellect in brainy specs blinking shortsightedly.

The boys peek from around his back. Oh, couple more years; and the universe will implode from the amount of charm and testosterone fueled gorgeousness in the five mile radius around their family home.

"May we come in?" Thorington asks, balancing the pup under his arm like a rugby ball.

"Muh… wah..." answers Wren, and takes a step aside.

Thorington passes the puppy to the older nephew, and pulls off his glasses. And then he looks at Wren, his eyes no less intent despite the obvious shortsightedness. Wren is toast. She's as toasted as the best roasted turkey. Oh, where's that brandy butter she never makes since she's intolerant, and it's too early for Mira?

"This is Phil and Killian," Thorington introduces the boys.

"And this is Erebor!" the younger, dark haired boy announces proudly, and points at the puppy. Wren looks. It's panting, a long pink tongue hanging low.

"And that is Mira, I presume?" Thorington asks, and Mira takes a step forward from behind Wren.

"Are you John?" Mira's tone is strict.

Would you look at that! Thorington's best wide, white-toothed grin isn't having any effect on Mira! It's definitely working on Wren, though.

"I am. Pleasure to meet you," he answers, and Wren remembers the rules of hospitality.

She invites everyone inside.

"It was very kind of you to have us, Wren," Thorington rumbles, taking off his coat. Wren doesn't fail to notice that the dog is being passed between the three men. Well, men-ish. They clearly aren't letting it down since it's so very dirty.

"The boys are on their way to dinner with their stepfather," Thorington explains. "They spent the day with me, and now I'm supposed to send them to the restaurant in a cab. I'm not taking the dog to my place, since my building doesn't allow pets. I was hoping to impose on you for couple hours until they come back and take the dog away."

Remember, how Wren compared him to a very slow but convincing steamroller? Yeah, exactly! She feels all warm and pliant here. And she does want him to stay! She doesn't even mind the dog.

"We should wash it first," she says in an uncertain tone. She's a clean freak! It's a big step for her to let anyone into her bathroom! To say nothing about a dog that's covered in mud and is loudly reminiscent of a spotted dick in looks.

"It's thirsty," Mira states in her Mira-ish even tone. She's giving the dog a scrutinizing look. "If it's doing this with its tongue, it's thirsty. I saw it in a show on telly."

"Smart kid!" Phil notes. Mira lifts her eyes at him.

"I am. I am the smartest in my school room. I colour the fastest too." Wren shifts between her feet. That's the price for having a bright child. Modesty, fake or real, just isn't on the menu. "Are you now my cousins?" Mira asks the boys. Yeah, subtlety isn't either.

"Well, maybe we should… um… take Erebor to the bathroom, and I'll find a bowl for it," Wren squeaks, and Thorington shifts his laughing eyes from Mira at Wren.

"Sure," he answers, and blimey, does his small lopsided smile have to be so fit?! Wren feels wrapped in it like a pig in a blanket.

"And yes, we're your cousins now!" Killian's jolly voice rings through the parlour, and Wren twitches.

"Let's go, clot," Phil grumbles, and throws Wren an apologetic smile. With these dimples and the golden hair as lush as a L'Oreal commercial, he's heading straight into that elite club of 'men too good-looking for real life,' where his Uncle is the President.

Phil pulls grinning Killian by the sleeve out of Wren's flat, both mumbling polite thank-you'd and goodbye's; and Wren is suddenly left in her hall with her daughter, the man she spent the previous night with, and a very dirty - and apparently thirsty - dog.

* * *

"Well..." Wren draws out.

"I'll get a bowl." Mira is all business. "The bathroom is that way." She points down the corridor and disappears in the direction of the kitchen.

"You heard the general." Thorington has adorable crinkles in the corners of his eyes when he smiles. These are the crinkles of doom! Wren is bloody doomed!

He heads towards the bathroom, and on the way he leans to her ear, and his whisper tickles her ear.

"At ease, soldier."

He's right. Her spine was as rigid as caramel decorations on her best raspberry meringue roulade. Him sexily whispering something to her, making a curl bob near her cheekbone from his fresh, minty breath? Not helping!

She takes five deep breaths in, using the blinking Christmas lights as her metronome, and then she follows him to the bathroom.

The dog is standing in her tub, and Thorington is kneeling in front of it, patting the dog's round head. Wren ogles the large hand. She knows how it feels - it's heavy and warm, and she might have been squinting in pleasure just like the dog right now, when last night he… Uhem. Nevermind.

"Have you ever washed a dog before?" she asks, and he throws her a cheeky look.

"I hardly expect it to be harder than washing a toddler. I've washed two in my life."

"I've had to wash only one, so you do it," she blurts out.

He guffaws and starts scratching the dog's soft floppy ear.

"So, it's just you and I here, Erebor?" he murmurs.

Oh god, this voice! It's sweet, and dark, and rich, like Paul Hollywood's Buche de Noel. To think of it, the accent is similar too. Wren's got a thing for men who say 'bootter' instead of 'butter.' Maybe she can ask him to pronounce that famous phrase from that BBC mini-series, about something being 'oonfair' and 'oonjust?' Oh whom is she kidding? She doesn't need any extra stimulation! The man has moved her name from 'Nice' to 'Naughty' list in one date!

"You can use my shampoo." Wren points at the shelf. "And I'm even willing to sacrifice a guest towel for… Erebor."

Thorington turns on the water and starts lathering Wren's Shiseido Tsubaki into the stray's fur. Does everything the man does look that delish? His movements are elegant, fluid, and confident.

"You ran away in the morning," he suddenly announces, without tearing his eyes off the puppy, and Wren freezes, her thoughts sloshing in her noggin in panic like poached pears in a mulled wine sauce.

"Here's water." Mira's voice is like _Come, All Ye Shepherds_ to Wren's ears - sweet and oddly unnerving.

Mira shows up with one of Wren's best mixing bowls, and promptly pushes it under Erebor's nose. The dog starts lapping greedily.

The three humans in the bathroom are waiting. Thorington's long arms are hanging over the tub's edge, foam mixed with dirt slowly dripping off his long strong fingers. Wren is trying not to look at the said fingers. Mira is watching the dog.

"Do you know how to skate?" Mira asks, and pins Thorington with a look as sharp as a tip of a slice of a hazelnut tart.

"I do," Thorington answers, and Wren is too slow to interfere in the following interrogation.

"Will you hang my Mum's shelf?"

"Gladly."

"I love bats. Do you love bats?"

"I do. They're fascinating."

"They have echolocation, and they sleep during the day. Except in the zoo. Can we have a dog too?"

"It's up to your Mum." Thorington cuts his eyes at the mortified Wren. Does he need to look so entertained, in the name of Mrs. Clause's knickers?

"It means 'no' right?" Mira's voice is disappointed. The dog is done drinking, and Mira gives it a sad look over.

"It means 'maybe,'" Thorington answers, and then adds in a loud conspiratory whisper, "I'll talk her around."

"I like you," Mira postulates, and Wren hides her face behind her hands with a groan. "You can come for dinners now."

Mira rises and leaves the bathroom. Wren's still praying for the floor cracking under her feet and her whooshing down through the flats underneath, somewhere deep deep under ground where the embarrassment can't reach her. But she suspects, no place is safe.

"So, about this morning..." Thorington starts in a nonchalant tone, going back to washing the dog.

Oh in the name of yule log, what is she to do now?!

 _ **To be continued...**_

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **1\. Facebook Writer's Page: katyakolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **2. AO3 (archiveofourown) as kkolmakov**

{for FanFiction that is more my independent writing but with elements of ThorinxWren ship in it}

 **3. Wattpad**

kkolmakov/Katya Kolmakov

Presenting a new drama/romance/erotica webserial:

 _Summary:_ Armed with several degrees in psychology, sociology, and literary studies, as well as a particular set of skills and abilities, Gemma Wright works as a muse for artists in various creative fields. She can inspire a hit album; pull a popular novelist out of a writer's block; or organize an international tour for a dance company.

Gemma has strict rules and a precise plan for her personal life - and Jack Richards, a famous mystery writer, definitely doesn't fit her criteria. Perhaps, his direct competitor, John Barnett, with his soft manners and seemingly humble disposition, is a better match for Gemma than the dark and handsome Richards. Understanding others and leading them to the fulfilling and rewarding life is Gemma's specialty, but does she know the answers to the same questions when it comes to her own life?

 **4\. My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

 **romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_**

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

 _Updated_ _every Saturday!_

 **5. My art is available on:**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **DeviantArt: kkolmakov**

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Tumblr: katyakolmakov**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	7. A Bowl for Goldfish

**Happy holidays, my duckies! Thank you for being with me this year! It's been brilliant! Thank you for your support, for the reviews, and messages, and visiting me on other sites as well! I love you all! You make my heart full!**

 **Your truly,**

 **Katya Kolmakov**

* * *

"Um..." Wren mutters, and he continues giving her a long calm look. Oh blast him like a cracker! What is she supposed to answer to this?! "I didn't know what to say..." She honestly didn't! What does one say to a gorgeous man who rolled into one's life - very slowly, but leaving no option to stop him - and when one suddenly finds oneself doing things one never, never does?! Like spend a night with the aforementioned gorgeous man on the first date... or ever! Or inviting him to Christmas dinner! And then inviting him over before the Christmas dinner!

"What did you say to the previous man you woke up with for the first time?"

Is he actually asking, in the name of the generally underappreciated brussel sprouts?!

"The previous man I woke up with was Mira's father; and it was six years ago; and I assume I said 'good morning,' but it was a romantic weekend away, and in such circumstances one surely expects the whole waking up together after..." Wren had grown into such a habit of never saying anything NSFW, having a five year old child around, that she just spasmodically makes some wild hand gestures, which by the way have nothing to do with the unmentionable activity, and look more like she's whisking up meringue for a cranberry and orange pie. Thorington silently follows her flailing hands with his eyes. "And I needed to go get groceries! That's what I always do!" she finishes with a squeak.

"You always get groceries in the morning after..?" He repeats her hand gestures, one of his eyebrows cocked up. Even the puppy named Erebor is giving Wren a seemingly sarcastic look.

"No! This morning! I needed to get groceries. On Christmas Eve, in the morning I always go to the shop with my friend Thea..." Wren's brain is trembling in panic like James Martin's glamorous and refreshing clementine and prosecco jellies. "I bought you cheese! Five types!" She shows him a wide open hand, and he smirks.

That's the end of Wren's endurance.

"Well, I'll leave you to it..." She's backing up towards the door. "Have fun!"

She dashes out of the bathroom, with a suspicion that she's just heard a low chuckle behind her back.

* * *

Mira is reading her _Tilda and the Troll_ on the sofa in the living room. She lifts her eyes at Wren.

"Are they done?"

"Still washing." Wren gives Mira a forced smile. "So, yeah… This is John."

"He seems nice."

That's what Wren always says - in exactly this decorous, empty tone - about yet another cartoon character Mira is droning about on the drive back from school, or in the aisle with frozen peas. Wren has trouble keeping track of all sea creatures that Octonauts encounter on their perilous but exciting journey; and recently Mira's Canadian sitter introduced her to _Magic School Bus_. Wren appreciates the high quality science education her sprog is getting, but prefers to avoid getting too invested into the interpersonal relationship of the characters. There's enough unnerving interpersonal aggro in Wren's life as it is. Also, Ms. Frizzle is definitely a Time Lord. Just saying. A vessel that's bigger than it looks, appalling taste in clothes, travelling in space and time with a group of undertrained companions - c'mon! Wren is right, right?

"Nice… He is nice," Wren mutters and gives Mira an encouraging look hoping for a more detailed comment. Mira's back to her reading. Wren sighs and goes back to the kitchen.

* * *

A few minutes later, Thorington and a much cleaner Erebor appear from the bathroom. The puppy is yawning, but as soon as they reach the kitchen, the black nose starts twitching enthusiastically.

"I've googled it," Wren informs Thorington. "Apparently, it's OK to feed a dog certain human foods. Lean proteins, certain vegetables, especially pumpkins, for some reason; cheese, and..."

"He can have some of the chicken," Thorington interrupts and walks to the counter. The puppy is happy, Wren is in stupor. She hasn't finished sharing her research findings!

Still holding Erebor under his arm, Thorington opens couple cabinets and sticks his long nose in them. Wren's right eye gives the first - of many - twitches. Even her ex-husband wasn't allowed such frivolties! It had never been stated directly, but he knew better than moving Wren's stuff! She has a system! For everything!

Thorington pulls out a bowl and puts it on the table. It's an ice cream bowl. Well, not explicitly so, but that's one out of a set of two bowls which Mira and Wren eat ice cream from.

"What kind of cheese did you buy me?" He gives her a crinkly eyed look, crow's feet and curled up corners of his lips, and suddenly, the system isn't that important. After all, it's just a bowl, right?

Wren heads to the fridge, and they discuss the selection. There are certain cheeses that might be dangerous. Additionally, Thorington suggests cutting off one leg of the turkey - also found in the fridge for tomorrow's dinner - but that's where Wren draws the line. Cutting off a limb will botch up the whole roasting process! They settle on the ground beef Wren has bought for sausage rolls, and soon Erebor is happily noshing on Wren's kitchen floor. The ears are jerking adorably, and Mira, Wren, and Thorington are sitting around the table giving the pup googly eyes.

"So, if you marry Mum, we might get one like that too, right?" Mira asks, without taking her eyes off the dog. Thorington looks at Wren askance, she widened her eyes at him trying to delegate to him that A. He is under no circumstances to talk about future, or marriage slash possible cohabitation, or any other sort of commitment with her daughter. B. Even if the universe implodes, and he becomes a somewhat constant thing around here - he has no vote in the puppy vs. no puppy elections!

"If your Mum marries me, I solemnly swear to try to convince her to get a puppy," he answers, and Wren gives him a 'what was unclear in my glare?!' glare.

"But it won't be this puppy." Mira sounds gutted.

And then Thorington gives the worst possible answer! "You can come and visit my nephews, to play with Erebor any time you want."

Seriously?! Does he not understand that he's just presumed and assumed six hundred thirty two things; and worse so, and made a promise?!

"Oh, that's nice!" Mira beams. "I liked them. Not as much as the puppy, but still they seemed ace. Will you read me a book while we're waiting for them?"

Wren decides it's time to take the reins of this sleigh.

"Mira, you know it's getting late." Wren's tone is strict. "It's dinner time. Go wash your hands, and..."

Wren doesn't get to finish her sentence, because Erebor is done, and it decides that running around the flat - occasionally wiping its muzzle to her sofas! - is the best he can offer as the gratitude for their hospitality. A Benny Hill style chase ensues, and then Erebor is finally suppressed, just like the guinea pig in _Alice in Wonderland_ , and carried to the bathroom, and his face is washed and dried, while Wren cleans up the snout prints on the furniture.

Once returned to the public, Erebor drinks a bit more water and, before Wren can try to establish any sort of sane order in the house, Mira and the pup disappear in the hall, and sounds of some mad chase and a rubber ball jumping off the walls come.

Wren drops on the sofa and closes her eyes. It's OK, it's OK… She just has to survive an hour or so, and then the fluffy menace will be out of her flat. And she doesn't mean the dog. There was this stripe of dark chest hair between Thorington's pectoral muscles, and she clawed at his chest, and purred, and then… Nope, not thinking about it! No! Her head is empty of any inappropriate thoughts and memories like a Christmas bauble.

The menace is in the kitchen, and Wren ends up sinking her nails into the palms to stop herself from going and checking what he's doing. She suspects he's washing the - ice cream! - bowl, and probably isn't using the right soap. Wren has three bottles of soap in the kitchen. What? She has a system! One for dishes, one for fruit, one for hands.

He comes into the living room, wiping his hands on her towel. The eye twitch is increasing.

"I think we should go out for dinner," Thorington deadpans, and Wren's eyes fly up to his face.

"What?"

"Well, you haven't finished cooking." He waves towards the kitchen nonchalantly. "And you look exhausted."

"What?" Wren repeats her squawk.

"You're still fit," he answers with a grin. "But I think a good meal out and a walk would be perfect. The boys will pick up the dog soon, and then we can go."

Wren opens and closes her mouth, probably as gracefully as the Nutcracker, and then she makes a sound of a cat trying to cough out a furball.

"But… we always stay home, and I cook Alfredo, and… And everything is booked, it's Christmas Eve..."

"I know a bloke who owns a brilliant bistro. He'll get us a table." Would you look at that?! He's as cool as Frosty! Just like that?! He thinks he can just come into her life, put everything on its head, and…

Before Wren can even formulate her indignation and astonishment in her head, he turns around and disappears in the kitchen.

Wren pressed a hand to her forehead. When - and how - did her wonderfully organised life turn into this mayhem?!

 _ **To be continued...**_

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **1\. Facebook Writer's Page: katyakolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **2. AO3 (archiveofourown) as kkolmakov**

{for FanFiction that is more my independent writing but with elements of ThorinxWren ship in it}

 **3. Wattpad**

kkolmakov/Katya Kolmakov

Presenting a new drama/romance/erotica webserial:

 _Summary:_ Armed with several degrees in psychology, sociology, and literary studies, as well as a particular set of skills and abilities, Gemma Wright works as a muse for artists in various creative fields. She can inspire a hit album; pull a popular novelist out of a writer's block; or organize an international tour for a dance company.

Gemma has strict rules and a precise plan for her personal life - and Jack Richards, a famous mystery writer, definitely doesn't fit her criteria. Perhaps, his direct competitor, John Barnett, with his soft manners and seemingly humble disposition, is a better match for Gemma than the dark and handsome Richards. Understanding others and leading them to the fulfilling and rewarding life is Gemma's specialty, but does she know the answers to the same questions when it comes to her own life?

 **4\. My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

 **romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_**

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

 _Updated_ _every Saturday!_

 **5. My art is available on:**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **DeviantArt: kkolmakov**

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Tumblr: katyakolmakov**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	8. Batty Christmas

Wren's mannerly chewing her beetroot, pine nut, and rosemary chicken, while Mira seems rather chuffed with her pumpkin risotto. They were met, greeted, complimented, and ushered to a cozy table. There's a candle on the table; they are just by a giant gorgeous tree; and the lights are twinkling cheerfully. Wren's industriously avoiding looking at Thorington who's clearly savouring his quail with chestnuts and sage sauce. Wren has had dinner with him. She knows the effect his eating can have on her. The jaws moving, the strong neck, and tongue brushing at his lips… Wren makes a small choking sound, and greedily takes a gulp of her water.

The owner shows up with a wide smile on his face. More food appears, and pudding is offered. Mira gleefully agrees, and Wren squirms on her chair.

"So, Mira, your Mum told me you're a fan of Paddington?" Thorington asks, and Mira nods.

"Yes. And bats. I also love bats. Are you asking because you want to know what to get to me? You might be too late, you know." Mira scoops more of her risotto. "Father Christmas has already sent out the presents already."

"There's always... the special elf delivery service," Thorington answers dismissively, and Mira's eyes boggle.

"What is a special elf delivery service?"

Wren considers kicking the man under the table. Seriously, he's like a battle ram: barging into their life and creating havoc. Has he asked Wren what the pressy policy is? Nope. Has he consulted her on the existence of Father Christmas vs 'Mummy is paying for everything?' Just as nope! He's just assuming, and look at him! Not a shadow of a doubt that he's right, for the yule log sake's!

"There is a special group of elves who help out those who's late but have a good reason for it." Thorington leans over the table, and Mira follows his example, as if hypnotised. His voice drops. "And I know how to contact them."

"By email?" Mira whispers, her eyes as big as Wren's Nana's plates they use for their Christmas pudding.

"By owl post," Thorington whispers back, and Mira gasps. She then throws Wren a brilliant look, as if asking Wren to appreciate the sort of Christmas miracle is sitting at the table with them. Wren's starting to feel more and more dischuffed.

"But what good reason do you have?" Mira asks. "You aren't ill. And it's not like on my birthday, when Dad didn't give me anything because Mum was angry with him, and he left to Australia." Wren considers hiding under the table.

"But I only met you today," Thorington answers earnestly, not without throwing Wren a cheeky side glance, though. Look at these crow's feet and crinkly eyes and the curled up corner of his lips, oh in the name of Santa's braces! "I couldn't know your Mum would allow me to come for dinner. But now that I'm coming, I've talked to the elves, and sent my present. But I think we should start a new tradition as well. How about an early mini-present?"

Wren's fork loudly clanks to the plate. What?! What?! That is a plain insubordination! Quoting _Arthur Christmas_ , she should have him harpooned! How dares he?! Not only he's plain bribing and cajoling her child, he is shamelessly open about it!

Wren puffs and huffs like a kettle, and opens her mouth to politely and ambiguously tell him to scale it down a bit, while hopefully inflicting maximum pain onto his shin with her burgundy velvet Jimmy Choo's.

And then he has the nerve to continue, "How about a visit to a toy shop next door?"

What the wassail cup of cheer is this?!

* * *

They enter the shop, the bell above their heads rings, and Wren's slowly counting in her head. She just has to hold on for three more seconds, since no way in the name of Dasher, Prancer, and their often forgotten mates, it'll take Mira longer to squeal and disappear in the direction of puppets. Mira fancies puppets. Wren doesn't fancy a certain IT specialist at the moment.

"Puppets!" Mira lets go of Thorington's hand - she's been holding it all the way from the bistro! - and speeds up towards the display.

Wren immediately sinks her red - O.P.I. 'Smitten With Mittens' - nails into his pea coat covered arm.

"Could I speak to you for a minute?" she hisses, and he gives her a calm look. That pops the lid on Wren's tightly corked patience. Keeping one eye on Mira - displaying the ability most mothers have to look at two directions at the same time - Wren pins the cursed gorgeous specimen with a glare.

"This. Is. Unacceptable." Wren sounds like a sparkler - it's a hiss-s-s-s with a bit of a tsk-tsk-tsk, and a pts-pts-pts. "Not only you put all our schedule on its head, you didn't allow me to split the bill with you, and that sets a bad example in front of Mira! And then you offer her toys, although I have a strict limit on how many gifts anybody gets, and how everyone should get the same number, and now I will have to somehow whisk another gift for myself to go under the tree, for the sake of equality, and..."

She chokes on her indignation, since the infuriating man has just pulled a small box out of his pocket. It's small, it's silver, and it's Danielle Drapers. Wren gasps, and it takes four seconds to suppress the cocktail of equal proportions of 'squee!' and 'oh I couldn't!' in her. And then she finally sobers up! He's bribing and cajoling her as well!

"Put this under the tree. I'll bring the main ones for the two of you tomorrow with me," he says with a relaxed shrug, and Wren is close to impersonating a cracker. A ginger snap is coming!

She has a lot to say to him: how he was supposed to ask, and that that's not how it's done, and how dares he, and who does he think he is, but all that comes out is a squeaky 'We aren't at the jewelry stage of relationship yet!'

He gives her a look over.

"Wren, I understand. You have your routine, your habits. But if I let you determine how fast I'm included into your life, I'll be allowed to visit without a week's notice by the time Mira goes to uni. You don't want to let me close because you think she'll get attached. I'll make her attached now, and Bob's your uncle."

Wren's gaping at him with her jaw slowly descending towards the toes of her stilettos. Is he mad? Who admits to their schemes that openly?! And he's as chill as amaretto sorbet!

"But..." Wren sputters.

"You fancy me, Wren. But you will come up with thousand reasons to keep me at a great distance." He leans in to her face - the glacial blue eyes and thick black lashes are right in front of her - and she gulps. "I'm not planning to give you a single chance."

"We've had one date!" Wren emits yet another unconvincing and ineloquent squeak.

"We both know that you're all-or-nothing bird. And I don't need serial one offs from you, love." He quickly moves and presses his lips to her cheek. "I've waited six months. I'm prepared. I suggest you just give in."

He straightens up and looks at her down his long patrician nose. Wren's impersonating a carp. Open mouth, close, open, repeat, eyes appropriately boggled.

"Look, John, a bat!" Mira shows up with a very ugly puppet, and happily pushes it towards Thorington. "They are nocturnal!" Mira stumbles over the long word.

"And mammals," Thorington answers, and Mira grabs his hand and starts pulling him to the puppets, showering him with facts - probably learnt from _Magic School Bus_ \- like with confetti and serpentine.

Wren is hyperventilating.

 _ **To be continued...**_


	9. Happy Ever After Christmas

**Oops, I forgot to post this chapter! Just ran into it in my folders, and did the Picard facepalm :D**

 **Also, if you like this kind of John/Thorin+Wren romance, run to inkitt dot com, and grab a FREE COPY of my story "Due North." You can find it in Amour Romance Novel Writing contest. It's a very nice publishing site. There are just five days left, and if you click 'claim a free copy' you will significantly raise my chances to win.**

 **Thank you!**

 **Katya Kolmakov**

* * *

The last drop which makes the cup of Wren's patience to overflow is a lolly. Her eye starts twitching when a bat puppet goes into the basket; she's gritting her teeth after a Peppa plushie lands on top - but a lolly?! That's when she decides that he's gone too far! Spoiling her child as part of his 'Wren conquest' - she can somewhat tolerate, since it's Christmas; and maybe she thinks that Mira doesn't get spoiled enough. But a lolly! He doesn't even ask! What if Mira can't have sugar? Or there's a quota? And Wren was watching him - he didn't check the list of the ingredients!

Wren sinks her nails into his sleeve covered arm, and drags him aside. He glanced down at her, and now he looks worried. He should be, in the name of mulled wine and mince-pies!

"We are done," she hisses at him, her irises probably shooting enraged sparks like the fireworks over the Eye. "You're giving her these presents - because you've already promised them to her, and I'm not being a baddie here, and won't take them away - but after that, you and I are done."

"Wren..." he starts, and Wren growls at him.

"You didn't check the ingredients!"

"What?" He gives her a flabbergasted look.

"You didn't check the ingredients!" She picks up the red and white monstrosity from his basket. It's the size of Mira's face, for Santa's sake! Seriously?! Wren glares at him, and brandishes the lolly like an oaken branch. "Consider this your goodbye gift to her!"

"Mommy, would you like some tea?" Mira's polite voice comes from below, and Wren squeezes her eyes quickly taking her temper under control.

"Sorry, sweetie, what is it?" she asks a second later, in an even jolly tone, schooling her face in a saccharine smile.

Mira points at an Alice in Wonderland style tea party set up in the center of the shop.

"Tea? You always feel better after you have a cuppa."

Wren properly doesn't feel like playing right now, but she takes a deep calming breath in, and nods.

"And you too, John," Mira adds, in her more common demanding tone. "You will be mother."

"Why is he mother? I always pour us tea!" Wren squeaks in indignation.

"Because he's taller, and can reach across the table," Mira gives her an 'isn't it obvious' look, and marches to the table.

Wren throws John a look as sharp and cold as the icicles on the Trafalgar square fountain of 2013; and stomps to the toy table, her chin raised high.

* * *

The three of them sit down. Thorington's knees are near his ears; even the vertically challenged Wren is struggling.

A toy teapot - porcelain, Peppa bearing, and disgustingly pink - is passed to Thorington, who is as cheery as a certain furry green recluse whose cave overlooks the merry town of Whoville.

"Not too full, please," Mira commands him mannerly. "I take cream."

Thorington throws Wren a dark look, and she presses her lips. He then pours imaginary tea in Mira's cup - and after a pause, in the one in front of Wren. She picks up the milk jug and offers it to him, raising one eyebrow. He nods, still giving her the perfect Scrooge impersonation.

Mira then picks up the three-tier platter, and passes it to Thorington.

"It's a talking sarnie, John." She gives him a pointed look. His eyebrows jump up. Wren groans. Unlike him, she knows the drill.

"And what does the sarnie say?" he asks, giving the empty space a suspicious look.

"Sarnies don't talk. They don't have a mouth." Mira rolls her eyes. Wren have to shamefully admit, that's her gesture, copied with astonishing precision. "You take a sarnie, and talk. We do that when someone pushes me at school, and then I kick them, and Mum needs to know the truth." And then to finish Wren up, Mira repeats their usual line, "Talking is the key to understanding."

"Sweetie, John doesn't need a talking sarnie," Wren tries to interfere.

"No, I want it." Thorington narrows his eyes at Wren, and picks up an invisible sarnie, and places it on his plate. "And you will take one as well."

"Me?" Wren defensively winces away from the plate Thorington is now handing her with a fake polite expression. "I'm OK, thank you. I'm not… hungry!"

"You don't need to be hungry to take a talking sarnie, Mum. And it's your favourite. Egg and cress." Mira points at the tray with her eyes, and Wren gives into her fate.

She picks up the fake sandwich, and sighs.

"John, you go first." Mira mannerly sips from her Peppa cup. Thorington is quiet, with muscle knots moving on his jaw, and then he pins Wren with a heavy glare.

"I don't understand why your Mum is unhappy with me. I thought we're having a grand evening."

Mira stirs her cuppa, and using the spoon as pointer she passes the right to speak to Wren. Wren scoffs.

"I can see that John sees nothing wrong in this evening. All I see is him barging in and making all decisions and not asking my permission."

"John?" Mira prompts.

"I don't see anything to ask permission for." Thorington sounds haughty. "I invited you and your Mum to dinner, and now we're having a jolly shopping trip." To calm herself, Wren picks up a spoon and starts stirring - it's more of drilling, to be honest.

"Mum?"

Wren exhales a long calming breath.

"We're not supposed to have a shopping trip altogether. Everyone's presents have already been..." Wren swallows the word 'bought.' "Have been sent out by Father Christmas. And we have traditions. We were supposed to eat chicken alfredo tonight. And we've eaten so many biscuits in the last few days, that Mira surely doesn't need a lolly the size of a grown up turkey!" By the end of her speech Wren loses her composure, and shakes the spoon in front of Thorington's long nose.

"If we do everything your way, I'll be let in as a guest!" Thorington has lost his bottle too, and is now talking to Wren, having forgotten he's supposed to be holding an invisible sarnie in his hand. "I don't want you to..." He searches for the right words. "You'll just add a chair at the table for me. I don't want a chair!"

Wren's staring at him without understanding, and Mira pats his upper arm.

"You need to explain it, John. Would you like an explaining scone?"

"I don't want to be invited to join, and then asked to leave in the morning," Thorington apparently manages without the scone. "You ran away! And you will do it again!" He's raising his voice now. "I need you to let me in! Completely!"

There's silence in the shop, and Wren squirms on the tiny uncomfortable chair, under the unblinking judgemental stare of two shelves of plush Tiggers, Toads, and Peter Rabbits.

"You can't just… spring it on me like that," she mumbles. "I need to get used to it, to process..." Wren straightens up her napkin, eyes lowered.

"It's true." Mira nods, presumably slicing another cake. "She always asks for a day to think things over. She needs three cuppas to know what she thinks."

Wren feels Thorington's eyes on her, and she gingerly lifts her face.

"And what do you mean you don't want a chair? Are you going to eat standing up?" She tries a lighter tone, with a tentative smile.

"I mean, not a guest chair, with upholstery that doesn't match the living room set. I want a half of everything." Judging by the Roger Moore eyebrow, it's not only the living room furniture he's talking about.

"You can't have a half," Mira answers decisively. "It's mine. We share everything."

Mira looks around her, clearly losing interest in the tea party. "Oh, look, railway!" She jumps up and rushes to the other corner of the shop.

Thorington slightly shifts in the chair - and Wren swoons, because he turned to keep an eye on Mira. She chews her bottom lip to gather her courage, and then offers, "Maybe you can..." Wren awkwardly clears her throat. "You can have a third."

Thorington whips his head to look at her.

"But you need to start checking the ingredients," she adds, and he gives her a wide grin.

* * *

Back home, Mira bounces to her room to change in her jammies; and Thorington is lingering in the living room, as if absorbed in studying the Christmas tree.

Wren helps to brush the little teeth, turns on Tardis night light, and kisses her offspring goodnight.

"Is John going to be here in the morning?" Mira asks, busily arranging the army of her plushies around her. It's a laborious task, they are about fifty of them.

"Um… maybe?" Wren answers, and Mira throws her a sharp look.

"It's about the bed, right?" she asks, and Wren freezes, her hand hovering over the lime green sock she was going to pick up from the floor. "He said he wanted the half of all furniture, and you don't want to share the bed."

Mira couldn't be any more wrong.

"And he's big. He will take a lot of room," Mira continues her musings. "And then in the morning, you will have to give him the turn in your bathroom as well." Wren didn't need the image that her libido readily supplied: Thorington stepping out of a shower, a tiny fluffy towel precariously sitting on his hipbones.

"Well, I will have to somehow manage, I reckon," Wren answers in a disobedient raspy voice. "It'll take some time to get used to it, I suppose..."

"He's nice though," Mira announces, and Wren throws her a surprised look.

"Yeah?" Wren ruffles Mira's orange curls.

"Yeah," Mira firmly states, and yawns.

After kisses and cuddles, Wren is slowly closing the door, when she hears a sleepy voice, "Say goodnight to him. And tomorrow, if he's still here, he gets a kiss too."

Wren smiles, shakes her head at how different her life has suddenly become, and leaves.

* * *

One thing, for sure - coming up to a large male from behind, wrapping her arms around his middle, and pressing her cheek into a warm jumper clad back is a bliss.

"I sleep on the right side of the bed," she mutters, and feels a low throaty chuckle shake his body.

"Well, how perfect is that? I definitely prefer the left one."

He turns, and his long heavy arms wrap around her shoulders. Wren smiles into the bright blue eyes.

"Do you skate?" she asks, and he smirks lopsidedly.

"Luke Boothroyd has nothing on me."

Wren quickly rises on her tip toes, kisses him - and then picks up his hand and leads him to the bedroom.

THE END

* * *

 **P.S. Probably, till Christmas 2017 :)**


End file.
